He saw at his feet the body of an elderly man; the face was turned away from him, crushed in against the glaze of the wall, but he judged the man to be elderly because of grey hair and whitening whisker; it was clothed in a good, well-made suit of grey check cloth--tweed--and the boots were good: so, too, was the linen cuff which projected from the sleeve that hung so limply.

One leg was half doubled under the body; the other was stretched straight out across the threshold; the trunk was twisted to the wall.

Over the white glaze of the tiles against which it and the shoulder towards which it had sunk were crushed there were gouts and stains of blood.

And Driscoll, taking a hand out of his belt, pointed a finger at them.
"Seems to me," he said, slowly, "seems to me as how he's been struck down from behind as he came out of here.

That blood's from his nose--gushed out as he fell.